CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK
Metro General’s afternoon shift is in full swing when we arrive. I spot Sophia immediately—she’s at the nurses’ station, managing three conversations at once while typing. That dark hair’s escaping its tie again, wisps framing her face.
She hasn’t looked up yet, probably still mortified from our phone call earlier. I can’t help but smile remembering her flustered backtracking: “I mean—to give report. You can call to give report. About patients.”
An idea strikes. Probably stupid. Definitely risky. But Rodriguez’s words echo: “Haven’t asked anything to be shut down from.”
“Room twelve,” Priya directs us. “Dr. Chen’s waiting.”
We transfer Thompson, and I give report to Melissa Chen. She agrees—looks surgical. Thompson nearly cries with relief when she says she’ll order a CT.
“See?” I tell him. “Sometimes the pain is real.”
After cleanup, I make my move. The coffee shop in the hospital lobby knows me now—one of the perks of running to Metro constantly.
I ordered a flat white. The Metro General café gave it a decent crack, all things considered. Then, casual as I can manage: “Actually, quick question. The charge nurse from the ER—dark hair, always looks like she needs more caffeine?”
The barista grins. “Sophia? Oh yeah, she’s a regular. Why?”
“Thought I’d bring her one. Been a rough shift.” I lean on the counter, friendly but not creepy. “What’s her usual?”
“Red-eye, no cream, no sugar.” She shakes her head. “That woman drinks jet fuel, I swear. Sometimes asks for an extra shot when it’s really bad.”
“Better make it with the extra shot then.” I slide a twenty across the counter for a six-dollar coffee. “Keep the change, yeah? Appreciate the help.”
“Trying to impress the ice queen?” She winks as she adds the extra shot. “Good luck with that.”
Ice queen. Not the first time I’ve heard that. But I remember her voice on the phone—flustered, warm, definitely not frozen.
I carry both coffees back to the ER. She’s still at the nurses’ station, now frowning at what looks like a staffing grid. Her cheeks are slightly pink—still thinking about our phone call, maybe? I set the red-eye on the desk next to her.
“Figured you might need this, Charge Nurse.” I keep my tone light, testing the waters after our earlier…moment. “Heard it’s been a busy one.”
She stares at the cup like it might explode. “How did you…”
“The barista was very helpful.” I sip my flat white innocently. “Apparently you’re famous for your coffee orders. Something about jet fuel?”
Her eyes narrow. “You bribed the barista for my coffee order?”
“Bribed is a strong word. I prefer ‘tipped generously for information.’”
The tiniest smile tugs at her mouth before she suppresses it. “That’s…thank you.” She picks up the cup carefully, inhales the aroma. “Extra shot?”
“Barista’s recommendation for rough shifts.”
She takes a sip, and her eyes close for just a second. Worth every penny of that twenty.
“Well, well.” Dr. Cameron Lee materializes like smoke. Always does have terrible timing. “Mitchell, about that dinner we discussed…”
Sophia’s eyes snap open. “We’ve never discussed dinner, Dr. Lee.”
“We should rectify that.” He leans on the counter, completely ignoring me. “Tonight? That new French place downtown? I’ve got reservations.”
“I don’t—”
“Come on.” His smile would probably work on someone who hadn’t been dealing with him for years. “One dinner. What’s the harm?”
Before I can step back, before I can make a graceful exit, Sophia’s hand lands on my forearm. Her fingers are cool through my uniform sleeve.
“Actually, I already have dinner plans.” Her voice is steady, but I feel the slight tremor in her grip.
Cameron’s eyebrows rise. “Oh? With who?”
Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly. Here it comes.
“Jack here just asked me out on a date.” She glances at me, and something in her eyes is half challenge, half plea. “Didn’t you, Jack?”
The ER seems to pause. Even the monitors sound quieter. I can feel everyone within earshot holding their breath.
“That’s right.” I set down my coffee, turn to face her fully. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. “Tonight, actually. Hope you haven’t changed your mind?”
Her eyes widen slightly—surprise that I’m playing along? Relief? Something else?
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Her voice has that charge nurse authority, but underneath…
Cameron’s face cycles through several expressions before landing on skeptical. “Really. The paramedic.”
“The paramedic has a name,” I say mildly. “And a reservation.”
“Since when—”
“Since now.” Sophia’s voice could cut glass. “Was there something medical you needed, Dr. Lee?”
Tasha chooses that moment to appear, because of course she does. I’ve handed off enough patients to her in fast track to know her timing is always impeccable—and usually unfortunate. “Did I just hear right? Mitchell’s got a date with the Kiwi?”
The look Sophia gives her could freeze hell, but before she can respond, my phone buzzes. Rodriguez, texting from the rig, wanting to know my status.
“I should go.” I touch Sophia’s hand where it still rests on my arm. “So, tonight? Giuseppe’s downtown?”
She hesitates, calculating. “Eight-thirty? I need to drop Madison at her friend’s house first.”
“Eight-thirty it is.” I squeeze her hand gently. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Meet me?” Her eyebrows raise slightly.
“Figured you’d want your own car.” I lower my voice, just for her. “In case you need an escape route.”
Something softens in her eyes. “Eight-thirty, then.”
Cameron makes a sound like he’s choking. Tasha’s mouth actually falls open.
“Italian sounds perfect.” Sophia’s voice is steady now, decided. “Giuseppe’s has that nice corner booth.”
“The one with the view.” I grab my coffee, grin at the audience. “See you tonight, Mitchell.”
As I head for the exit, I hear Tasha’s voice: “Did that really just happen?”
And Sophia’s response, dry as dust: “Don’t you have patients in fast track?”
Rodriguez is leaning against the rig when I get outside, grinning like a loon. “Friday night date with the ice queen. Better pray we don’t get held over.”
“Don’t even say it.” I climb into the passenger seat, reality setting in. “Christ. I’ve got an actual date tonight.”
“Better hope dispatch is quiet after seven.” He starts the engine. “Nothing worse than showing up late, covered in someone else’s blood.”
Eight-thirty. That gives me…I check my watch. Just over six hours to get through shift without a late call, get home, shower, find something decent to wear, and figure out how to turn a fake date into something real.
The tones drop. “Medic 402,” dispatch crackles. “Respond to…”
Back to work. But now I’ve got something to think about besides the next call. Something real.
Someone real.
The afternoon suddenly looks a lot more terrifying. And interesting.